


A Welcome Arrow Through The Heart

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn-hetexchange, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-01
Updated: 2010-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:05:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"It's been three years since Bill's death, and until today Ellen Harvelle thought she saw the last of John Winchester that night."</em>; pre-series</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Welcome Arrow Through The Heart

**Author's Note:**

> For sxymami0909. One of the prompts were the lines 'You left a hole where my heart should be' from the song "Breath" by the Breaking Benjamin, and that's what I went with. Kind of, meaning it's probably not the take on the prompt she had in mind, so apologies for that.
> 
> Beta'd by painted_pain, who's quite the treasure. ♥ 
> 
> Title is from "You're All I Have" by Snow Patrol.

It's been three years since Bill's death, and until today Ellen Harvelle thought she saw the last of John Winchester that night.

Three years, to the day, and he's about the last person she wants to see, here, now, or ever. If he's got apologies to offer, she doesn't want to hear them, though she has her doubts that that's what he came for. Or that he's even capable of it, for that matter.

He didn't come to get drunk, either, from the look of him that job's already done.

Part of her knows that John's not the only one to blame. Bill was an experienced hunter, he knew the risk, knew that it was dangerous. But it's more bearable that way; blaming Bill as well would hurt too much.

Blaming John, that's easy. Hating him. Not only for Bill, but also for two young boys being dragged along into a life that will eat them alive. Sure thing, some people would say that the back room of a bar ain't no place to raise a little girl, either, but Ellen never gave a rat's ass about people's opinions. And at least she will do whatever she can to keep Jo out of the business, sure as hell won't train her for it like he does with his sons.

Some other part of her is getting a sick kind of satisfaction out of how wrecked John looks. That he feels guilty, that he blames himself, too. That part probably is what keeps her from reaching for the shotgun and telling him to get the fuck off her property; it wants to bask in the sight.

So they stare at each other, him standing in the middle of the room, her behind the bar. They're alone, it's past closing time.

"What the hell are you doing here?” she finally barks.

He opens and shuts his mouth twice before he slurs, "Ellen, I...", and that's all that comes out.

He turns on his heels and heads for the door.

Ellen curses under her breath, then says, "Wait." Pours him a drink, a hard one, and sends the glass on its way down the counter with a swing.

For a moment, he hesitates, but then sits down on a bar stool and starts drinking. Or keeps drinking, depending on how you look at it. No word is spoken for a while, and she washes glasses and wipes the counter to keep herself occupied.

John's the one who starts talking again, simply says "I'm sorry." It's barely more than a whisper, which sounds strange in a voice as rough as his.

"Ellen, I'm so sorry", he repeats, voice stronger now, and the reason why he had the cheek to turn up here tonight and absolutely fucking wasted dawns to her: any other way, any other day, he'd never gotten these words out.

And Ellen's doesn't know if she's supposed to appreciate the effort or be even more angry at him.

"John", she starts, suddenly unsure on how to continue when she sees tears pooling in his eyes. In her mind, she's been through confronting him so many times, calling him names, wishing him to hell in colourful words, but now she finds she doesn't have it in her to throw insults at this broken shell of a man.

Anger quickly turns into pity, more so since something tells her it's not only Bill he's crying for.

Before she even knows what she's doing, she has rounded the counter and sits down next to him, a hand on his shoulder. They'd been friends once, before, and she can't help but offering comfort. That's just the kind of woman she is, for better or worse.

When John reaches for a strain of her hair, curls it around his fingers, Ellen lets him. When he cups her face, she leans into it. And when he kisses her, slow and almost carefully, she kisses him back.

And that isn't like her, at all, but it's been a long time since she felt someone's lips on hers, or the scratch of stumble on her cheeks, or someone's breath warm on her skin, and she can't stop.

He whispers her name again, but in a completely different tone this time, a low rumble that makes her shiver. His kisses taste like several brands of alcohol at once, and the smell of a hunter - gun oil and dirt and the sweaty reek of clothes not changed in days - comes off him in waves; it's what surrounds her every day, and yet, she missed it so much.

It's familiar, and it's not, and it makes her reach for his fly.

At that, he freezes, almost as if even though he was the one to start this, taking it further didn't occur to him. Searches for her gaze, raises an eyebrow in question.

She just nods briefly, then undoes his zipper and slides a hand down his jeans. His head falls onto her shoulder and he looks down between them, watching as her hand frees his hardening cock from his boxers and she begins to stroke.

That's all he does for a few moments, watching her, but then he seems to be remembering the rules to this game. He looks up, a predatory smile on his face, and tugs at her to make her get up from her stool. She untangles her hand, stands, and he pushes her against the counter. Unzipping her jeans and manoeuvring it past her hips takes him a few tries, the alcohol making him clumsy.

Once he's managed that, she hops onto the counter, legs spread wide, an invitation he doesn't hesitate to accept.

They're both out of practice, so it doesn't last long. She bites her lips when she comes, to not make any noise that could wake Jo, and he collapses against her, panting.

You don't meet John Winchester and come away unscarred, that much is for sure. Ellen smiles a bitter smile at that thought, locks the door behind him and, as every night, rips the day's sheet off the little calender next to the cash register before she heads for the back room.

The piece of paper falling into the bin says 'November 2nd' in big, black letters.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** Yes, thank you, I know there's not even the tiniest bit of a hint that Bill might've died on the same date Mary did. ;) And I didn't intend to write it that way, I promise. But the idea sort of jumped me from behind, and the more I thought about it the more sense it made to me, so I kept it in. Ahem.


End file.
